i am ready to write again.

i know it because when i left the house
this morning, the trees had all become wiry people
with the complexions and fingernails i used to recognize
back when i was writing poetry.

and because on my way to the dry cleaners
i finally fit my problems with love
into a metaphor that i can understand.
i decided my love life should in no way resemble
my mounting pile of dirty laundry.
that i'm going to need it to be like a new pair of socks
every morning, if i am to continue getting dressed.

and because when i finally sat down
i stayed there, sinking into the sighing chair,
inventing out loud jumply madly
into the darkest corners to chase
the perfect words out with my machete.

Classified

This morning i opened the paper
to find my photograph, plain as day.
there i was, staring back at myself,
frowning in black and white-
looking as though i had some judgment
against my shirt, my english muffin,
i looked mysterious enough.

It appeared to be a want ad,
with a number at the bottom.
the hostile woman on the other line
said i had some audacity, calling-
soon enough i had lost her.

The next day, there i was again.
buried deep beneath a flowing beard,
a mountain range of wrinkles,
i hardly recognized myself under it all.
they must have blocked my calls,
it’s been so hard to concentrate since.
i can’t stop wondering what i’ve done,
or if i may as well quit shaving.

Weather Report

The clouds are retreating tonight
together in the same direction-
like bulging, sad parade floats
with degenerative maladies,
leaving patches and potholes
in the checkerboard firmament-

and the accumulating murkiness
somewhere near the horizon
is clapping its thunderous hands
to the fatuous music of war-

and still we sit, measuring the moon
between our slender fingers,
passing it to and from our open mouths.